45.Another World (31 August 2021)

Children's Conference restarted with two one-
day events (KCHAG, Monteverde - 24 July 2021)

It has been two-and-a-half weeks since we left Lebanon for our 5-month “Home Assignment”. The question that dogged us when we told people in Lebanon of our trip (“Are you going to come back?”) is still dogging us here in the U.S., but inverted: “Are you going to go back?” Because things are terrible in Lebanon, and even worse than they were when we flew out, people assume that our (unwise in their estimation) answer must be based only on conditions on the ground. We tell them, “Yes, Lord willing, that is our plan,” since our move there four years ago was also based on the Lord’s guidance above all else. But to those living in this world, we must be unaware of what the situation is on the ground – or in the news.

Enjoying a scavenger hunt at the conference
(KCHAG, Monteverde - 20 July 2021)

            When we think of Lebanon, we do not first of all think of the rampant corruption, the hoarding of resources, those seeking a profit from peoples’ misfortune, the long hours without electricity, the lack of sleep in the hot summer nights, the anxiety over finding food and medicine, the terrible banking system, the destruction of last year’s explosion and much, much more… We think of the people, the friends and loved ones we have, the children and young people, our colleagues, the small businesses we frequent, the churches, schools and institutions where we serve, the Armenian community we are a part of, and so much more. We also look to the coming years, to “what’s next”, the challenges ahead, the opportunity to add our strength and experience to the efforts of others, working with God to sustain life in a place and among a people whose muffled cry is: “We want to live!” The misery that their leaders are spawning all over the land must not determine our steps, but rather the One who placed this on our hearts. It won’t convince everyone questioning our planned return, but that’s the way it is.

A prickly-pear (cactus) seller finds a whole
row of customers, waiting to fill their gas
(25 July 2021 - Beirut)

            As the memory fades of the hardships we faced each day and each moment in Lebanon, it seems like we are currently living in another world. We remember that people continue to suffer even more humiliation there, but it has started to disappear from our consciousness, as we experience the luxuries of life in the U.S. Luxuries such as 24-hour electricity, uninterrupted water supply, filling a tank of gas without waiting in a long line, stable prices and currency, banks that allow you full access to your savings, fully-stocked pharmacies, the ability to plan a work day or a vacation day, heating and cooling of homes and businesses as needed, schools and universities happily planning to receive children and youth for the new school year, continuous internet at fast speeds, and on and on. We are inhabiting a parallel world from the one we left; a world where, strangely enough, things function as they were intended. Much like the world of privilege Lebanon’s leaders inhabit while they perpetuate a world of misery and humiliation for their people.

Socially-relevant graffiti, quoting
prophecy from Isaiah 6
(30 July 2021 - Beirut)

            Although it may seem so to anyone who has to endure daily deprivations, everything is not perfect in this parallel world we inhabit today. As time passes the dark side of life in the U.S. gradually reveals itself to us more starkly. One thing that has begun to creep into my consciousness is the “irrelevance” of being Armenian in this “far” Diaspora (far from the lands we were dispossessed of). With so much to do, buy, see, download, play, watch, consume, fix, replace, who has time to think about existential issues? Questions that keep some of us awake through the night are so irrelevant; questions such as, “Who am I? To whom do I belong? Do we Armenians have a collective future? What are the internal and external threats facing us? Are we our worst enemies, or are the criminal regimes surrounding Armenia? Can we work toward a coordinated Diaspora that neither ignores its own needs nor discounts those of Armenia?” One by one these concerns fade from view as I get wrapped up in the busy-ness of each day, and the many things that insist I pay attention.

            I also consider how “irrelevant” these questions now seem to many enduring great deprivations in Syria, Lebanon, and elsewhere in the “near” Diaspora, where the very visceral struggle just to subsist overtakes any considerations of national identity, of strategic planning for the future, of battling “red” or “white” genocides, of challenging globalization’s threats to us and other small nations… Each of these parallel worlds, one shiny and bright, the other dark and dreary, imposes itself on me, and on us, and makes us push aside any considerations of what truly matters, what keeps us human, what gives us meaning and identity, what can help us endure and flourish as a nation.

From every walk of life, walking to the city
center to remember those lost on August 4,
2020, and demand accountability
(4 Aug 2021 - Geitawi, Beirut)

           Even issues of faith are affected by the powers at play in these worlds. When you have every thing (emphasis on “thing”) available to you, God can become just another add-on to your life, and faith can be a pleasant – and optional – diversion. One that you meld and adjust to fit the values and standards of society. On the other hand, when you have nothing, faith can turn into a mere lifeline that you use to survive each day. Lifting your head up from the misery of each day in order to seek and do God’s will where you are right now can appear as an impossible luxury. How easily the immediate and urgent can supplant the important and foundational, and how often the temporal overwhelms the eternal. How hard it is to live in God’s world no matter what “real world” you occupy.

Portraits of the fallen in the 2020 port blast
(6 Aug 2021 - Saifi, Beirut)

            We had a full summer before we left Lebanon, including an extended stay (again) by our son Sevag, and preparation for our absence. Despite the steady decline in living conditions, we enjoyed being at home together. He had time to serve, time with friends, and time to eat bouza arabi (natural Arabic ice cream, home-made with goat’s milk). When people in his “usual” world ask him, “How was it in Lebanon? Wasn’t it dangerous? Wasn’t it difficult for you?” he simply answers them, “It was very good to be with my parents.” He, too, realizes that it is difficult for people in one world to grasp the reality of another world.

LebCat 45: Dreaming of donuts and other
easy handouts from the AUB crowd
(28 July 2021 - Bliss St., Beirut)

            Having experienced the Port Explosion of 2020 together with Sevag, we also experienced its first anniversary together. Sevag participated in a service of remembrance and prayer at Ashrafieh’s Armenian Evangelical Church, whose church and school buildings were hard hit by the blast. It was also a day for us to express our gratitude to God that we emerged safely from that maelstrom. A Christian artist from the U.S. honored the over-200 dead from the blast by preparing their portraits and pasting them around the perimeter of one of the big, empty buildings being built in downtown Beirut, a few steps away from the Martyrs’ Statue. As we walked past those portraits, gazing into their eyes brought home the pain and the reality of the loss – to their families, their communities, and their country. It’s a temporary exhibit, as those panels will be removed once the construction is completed. Hopefully their memory will not be temporary, and a new generation of those who love the truth will emerge and prevail, to pursue what is right, true and merciful in the world God so loves.    [LNB]

Drip Drip Drip

22.Drip, Drip, Drip (23 January 2019)

A brief respite from the rain, the city, the daily grind… at the
Pastors’ Retreat at KCHAG. (11 Jan. 2019 – Monteverde)

            For the past two weeks, for more days than not, all we had been hearing was the sound of rain. Morning and daytime and evening and morning. Sometimes we had breaks from the wet, but we accepted the steady “drip, drip, drip” as a necessary part of the winter season. Each dark and dismal morning I would get up and look out the window to see if it were really morning, and if it were raining… again. Once we had ascertained the day had started, and once the haze had cleared for a brief respite, we would look out the other window to see a brighter, whiter quilting over Mount Sannine. What we experienced as drip, drip, drip, they received silently, in the form of heavy snowfalls.

Norma paying a visit to our balcony/rooftop.
(23 Jan. 2019 – Geitawi, Beirut)

            Our “early warning device” in our bathroom is the best indicator of the precipitation. When a single drop of rain falls, it pings on the “tarbouche” or “fez”, the cover on top of the vent pipe, giving us a more accurate weather picture than the TV or our phone apps. But it doesn’t show us the damage caused by the heavy rains, in a country whose infrastructure is not in optimal condition, and which won’t see improvement any time soon. All of this rain brought landslides to a number of areas, closing highways and causing traffic delays at every turn.

            Not only were the roads, drains and rivers unable to handle all of this, but the refugee camps, most of which are in the central portion of the country, were turned into swamp-like conditions. In some situations, the water flowing through them resembled whitewater rapids, which would not have been a problem for that farmland-turned-tent-city in “normal” days, but where in today’s world does “normal” exist?

            Schools, which closed for several days because of the storms, are now adding makeup “rain days” to the end of the school calendar. We in the city are awaiting the next deluge, and whose name will be heard over and over in the news. The big storm was “Norma”, followed by one with another Western name (which the Arab media changed to “Maryam”). Some are guessing that next, Norma’s husband, or boyfriend, or maybe even her “ex-” will show up…

The “tarbouche” on our roof. Actually looks more like a
Japanese-style wicker “kasa” hat. Which sounds pretty European
to me. But then the Japanese call Euro-style hats “boushi”.
Go figure. (10 Mar. 2018 – Geitawi, Beirut)

            Over last weekend, “drip, drip, drip” was replaced by “thump, thump, thump” – the familiar sounds of the Huey helicopters, audible from miles and miles away. Lebanon hosted an economic summit of Arab leaders earlier this month. Considering the ever-worsening economic state of Lebanon, this was probably a good thing to host, to give visibility to the problems the country and immediate region is facing. Most of those leaders said they were coming, but then after some locals tore down and burned one of the flags near the venue (and posted a video of themselves doing it, of course) to express a decades-old grievance, they canceled and sent lower-level ministers to represent them.

Graffiti that blesses and challenges passersby, long after the
artist’s death (Samuel Pashgian’s home,
22 Jan. 2019 – Geitawi, Beirut)

            But the summit went on, and again roads were closed (for security purposes), and people stayed home. So, instead of traffic jams on the ground, there was the incessant “thump, thump, thump” of the Hueys overhead. For soldiers in Vietnam in the 1960s, this meant that help was on the way. For us here in Lebanon, I’m not sure what it means.

            But the dripping sound is more analogous of things that we face, such as the steady closure of small businesses in favor of “outlet”-style stores in western-style shopping malls, and the emigration of their owners to Armenia. Like a slow leak under the kitchen sink, you don’t notice it until it’s already damaged the floor. This is just one of the indicators of how a sub-group of Lebanese society, such as the Armenian community, is being stressed. The society overall will be the worse if these small, industrious communities disintegrate.

A pointed message on an electrical post
(6 Jan. 2019 – Geitawi, Beirut)

            The slow attrition of church members, something seen around the world, can be seen here as well. People, for whatever reason, tend to leave very silently, such that only the very alert notice, and then have a window of opportunity to reach out to them. Fortunately, there is an active and committed group of church members, including many young people, who are taking note and trying to think of ways of keeping people connected and integrated to their churches and communities. They’re even thinking of ways to keep young people who find work in other regions of the Middle East to stay involved in the life of their local church, possibly making use of new technologies to bridge the physical distance. It’s exciting, and I’m looking forward to ideas that will emerge.

            I’ve resumed rehearsals for the Armiss choir, and we’re preparing to give a full concert in June. It will be hard work, especially to build their cohesion. Drop by drop (not drip by drip) we’re gathering singers, young and young-ish (my peers) to be a part of this, and hopefully for all four voices. Notice I did not liken the choir to a bucket. That was on purpose.

LebCat 21: A fat-cat, similar to the non-feline
variety so prevalent in the country, waiting for
a burger to fall to the ground.
(17 Jan. 2019 – Mar Mikhael, Beirut)

            There’s some very interesting graffiti around the city, and I don’t pretend to understand all of it. Some is ominous. Some is humorous. Some is objectionable. Some is a nuisance. And some is thought-provoking, like the wall in Hamra on which is scrawled “Free your mind – Kill your television”.

            It has been two years since we moved to Lebanon, and the excitement, the challenges and the rewards continue. It’s exciting that I am resuming my Arabic studies, after a 20-month “break”. It’s challenging to focus on just a few things, work- and personal-related, and to say “no” to a bunch of other things that legitimately need someone’s attention. (Something about praying to the Lord of the harvest…) Meanwhile, it’s rewarding to be part of a network of friends and colleagues who do their best to support each other. Early in the month I was part of our semi-annual Armenian Evangelical pastor’s retreat, in which colleagues from Syria and Lebanon came together for a 48-hour experience. It’s things like this that keep me grateful for God opening up the way for us to be here.   [LNB]

The Departure Lounge

12.The Departure Lounge (28 January 2018)

The third of four groups of carolers in
front of our (and the neighbor’s)
door in the wee hours of Christmas
Day (6 Jan. 2018 – Beirut)

            We were enjoying our “last supper” with Lara, waiting for Hovig to take us to the airport for Lara’s return trip to Armenia. It had been a relaxing, fun, all-around great eight days of family time together. Suddenly, the neighbors across the hallway burst out of their apartment and began pounding on our door, hysterically screaming, “My!!! My!!! (in Arabic, “Water! Water!”). I rushed to their apartment to see what was burning, while Maria ran to our kitchen to grab a container to fill with water to douse the flame. When I reached their kitchen and saw a 26-year-old flat on her back with the family gathered around trying to rouse her, I rushed back to our place, grabbed the water from Maria and told her to go immediately and help them. That’s something I’m trained to do, after 38 years (this month) of marriage to an R.N. I consider it a finely-honed skill.

            The neighbors across the way were a Syrian-Armenian family from Damascus, who had come to Lebanon because they had been accepted by the Australian government to be relocated to Australia, albeit to a city where there is no Armenian community. Neither refugees nor tourists here in Lebanon, they consist of a widowed mother in her 50s and her three children in their 20s. Her fourth, the eldest son, had already escaped to Germany, and is working on obtaining a law degree there. They had been staying a few days here and a few days there for a month, until one of our pastors arranged for them to remain in a single place while they tried to get their affairs in order before their departure.

If it looks like we’re happy to be together, it’s because we are!
(3 Jan. 2018 – Beirut)

            Christmas Eve (January 5, that is) rolled around, and we were excited because Lara was going to bravely go out (only her third day in Beirut) with complete strangers from one of the church youth groups, to carol hither and yon in Armenian all night, something I used to do with my church’s youth 40 years ago back in Philly (albeit in English), something that stopped when members were no longer living in the vicinity of the church. We were also excited that four different churches were going to send their carolers to us, and in that way our temporary neighbors, burdened with fears from having lived in a war zone, along with the uncertainty about their impending relocation, would also enjoy the good news of Christ’s coming as each group showed up to sing (the last one arriving at 3 a.m.). And their faces were joyful! That night marked the transition from saying “hello” in passing to becoming “neighbors” in the local sense, where you stop by at any time, no invitation needed or expected, to talk and have a cup of (Arabic, of course) coffee.

            Oh, sorry… I left one of the neighbors passed out on the kitchen floor.

            So, Maria was doing her best to help this young lady wake up, while her younger sister and brother were yelling her name, and her mother was just yelling. Hysterics, in the not-funny sense. I stood at the ready, doing whatever Maria needed me to do, trying to calm down the mother, and eventually they got her up, onto a chair, and eventually into bed. But why had she passed out? Probably from not sleeping for two or three days. They had been going to a variety of local government offices for documents needed by the Australian embassy to grant them passage out of Lebanon, but they also had to travel back and forth to Damascus to get documents from there. They did that last trip to Syria in 24 hours, there and back. Lack of sleep, lack of proper food, and there you are on the kitchen floor.

Excursion with Lara to Jbeil/Byblos. Can you spot her in
this picture? (7 Jan. 2018 – Jbeil)

            Yet sharing this moment of crisis drew us even closer, as we listened to whatever they felt they could tell us. At first it was about their experiences in government offices here, trying to get their papers in order, and returning day after day, waiting from morning until evening, then being told to come back the next day. Later, they shared a bit of their past, and some of what they experienced during these seven years of war in Syria. Their neighborhood was surrounded on three sides by terror groups, giving them an unwanted front-line war experience. The mother said that one day a couple of years ago the army showed up, handed out guns to the men in her building (including her older son) and told them to defend it if Daesh (IS/ISIS/ISIL) broke through their defenses. This is a woman who had built her home bit by bit, saving up and doing improvements (like a roof and walls) as she was able, a woman who had the grit to study and sit for governmental exams at age 45 in order to get her high school diploma. She knew that this very real danger would soon reach both her sons. She called a friend who drives a taxi and told him to come by right away and whisk her older son away, out of the country, quickly, however he could. Eventually, she also sent her younger son to Lebanon, and then a few months ago, along with her daughters, joined him.

            As we sat and visited, and as they shared more and more with us, we spoke about how their lives were going to change radically in that “Western” country they were headed to. They would have peace and security, they would have cleanliness and order, but they would also be very lonely. I shared, “It’s an individualistic culture, where age, experience, family, and culture – aside from their own culture – are much maligned.” They were aware of this, and aware to some degree that they would need to adapt in many, many ways, including mastering English and gaining an education. They laughed as they related the story of a father sitting in a preparatory class given by the embassy, teaching about how to treat your children, Western-style: you musn’t hit them when you want them to do something, but explain to them why it is important to do this or that, etc., etc., etc. Yes, yes, yes, the father said he understood. But taking his child by the hand and leaving the classroom, as soon as they were outside the door, he soundly smacked him on the head for his disobedience!

For those who were worried that we haven’t yet gotten a set of
wheels, worry no more. (28 Nov. 2017 – Beirut)

            A few days ago we made another trip to the airport, this time taking this family, their eight suitcases and four carry-on bags, to leave them there to await the embassy agent who would guide them through until they boarded the airplane to their new life. It was a tearful parting, because they – and we – knew that they were not just leaving newly-found friends, but were also leaving a place of familiar comforts and terrors, and heading toward the unknown. I told them, “I’m happy for you, but I’m sad for our community. Each person who departs takes something away from us.”

            I often get the feeling that I’m living in a departure lounge. People are milling about me, doing the various tasks that are part of their daily lives, and their church and community life. But their one ear is on the public address system, waiting for their flight to be announced. Today after the worship service a fellow said to me, “You know, they all have their escape planned. All of them.”

            And now, a year after arriving, people are still asking us, “So, you’re planning to stay?” And we wonder how it is possible to be committed to a people and a place when you are mentally living in a departure lounge. Meanwhile, some, far away, are, as it were, sending text messages from those dreamed-about places to those in the lounge, saying, “What are you waiting for?”

LebCat 11: Sophisticated tastes, obviously, on
display in a jewelry store. Next to a falafel
restaurant. (28 Apr. 2017 – Burj Hammoud)

            Fortunately, there are many others here who know that a departure lounge is no place to live. We have cast our lot to be with them, to live and serve alongside them. Taking all the uncertainties and deprivations of daily life here into account, and realizing that the ill-advised and arrogant declarations of the rich and powerful elsewhere in the world are dealing crushing blows to people of all faiths and conditions in this part of the world, we are focusing on doing what is of lasting value. And there is so much to do in so many areas! …educational, cultural, environmental, and on, and on, and a great need for people who will keep their ear on God’s word, not the public address system.

            We came home from the airport that night feeling empty, feeling that loss. The day after, when the family had arrived in Australia, we sent them audio and text messages to encourage them. And we carried on with our week, praying for them, and we continue to do so. But we are resolved not to live in a departure lounge.   [LNB]

What I Really Meant Was

6.What I Really Meant Was… (16 July 2017)

Lebanese coffee manufacturer “Najjar” and its answer to the
single-serve coffee machines so popular in the west.
(30 April 2017 – Hamra, Beirut)

            For someone like me who considers coffee one of the basic food groups, being in a place like Beirut satisfies a deep longing in my heart. “Coffee hour” after church services does not consist of the watered-down version, but is simply, without question, Arabic coffee. If you want the other kind, generically called “nescafé” without the capital “n”, you have to ask specifically for it. And the reason that’s funny is because “nescafé” sounds like “half-coffee” in Arabic.

            In the U.S., someone came up with a single-service coffee machine you can put on the kitchen counter and generate fresh cups of various kinds of coffee, or if you like, various kinds of tea with a faint coffee residue flavor. And you can generate huge amounts of non-recyclable k-cups destined for landfills everywhere. The popular brand of this machine is something I pronounce “kouyrig”, which means “dear sister” in Armenian. I like my sister much, much more than these machines. Still, I was intrigued when, back in April, the local version of the “kouyrig” hit the market, claiming to consistently make the best cup of Lebanese coffee. With the same little trash-generating k-cups, in regular or cardamom flavor. As far as I know, the traditional method of cooking Arabic coffee in a pot over a fire is not in danger of being replaced.

The exact same type of Arabic coffee machine
at the place where I now take Arabic lessons!
(21 Mar. 2017 – U-Turn Center, Hamra)

            All of this brought to mind an experience I had seventeen years ago, way back in A.D. 2000, when we moved to Beirut as a family and I took up my new position as Campus Minister at Haigazian University. Imagine my delight in seeing something I had never encountered before: a hole-in-the-wall bakery on rue Mexique, next door to the University, which had a machine that brewed Arabic coffee! You put in a 500-lira coin (33 cents), chose what level of sugar you want, sat a disposable cup in the little ring (there we go with more trash-production…) and waited for the little “ibriq” (“coffee pot”) to fill with water, the correct measure of coffee, a touch of sugar, then cook the coffee, and when it was ready, it tilted on a hinge to fill up your cup! It became my new favorite hangout.

            I befriended with the woman who ran the bakery, me with my nearly non-existent Arabic, and her with her non-existent English. I found out that she was supporting her family, and that she was part Armenian, but didn't speak the language. We mostly used smiles, gestures and a few words to interact. One day I went to buy my usual cup of coffee, but when I tasted it I found it had no sugar. I drank it anyway, because you just don’t waste a good cup of coffee. Two days later, on my next visit to the baker, I decided I would be a proper customer (in my U.S. way of thinking) and inform the establishment owner of the problem with the coffee machine. And do so in Arabic (my only choice). So I said what I thought was, “The day before yesterday there was no sugar.” What actually came out of my mouth was: “There is no closed the day after tomorrow” (“Ma-fi sakkar ba3d bukra.”). I had changed “sukkar” into “sakkar”, and “the day before yesterday” wasn’t even in my Arabic vocabulary.

LebCat6 lives around the corner from our current
housing and keeps an eye… or two on comings
and goings. (2 Apr. 2017)

            Telling this story later that day caused much mirth in the Bakalian household, but generated no sympathy for my linguistic struggles. On another occasion a few years later, after Maria and I had dropped off our younger son Sevag at a summer camp, on our way back to Beirut we stopped at a bakery on the highway, and I went in to buy two bottles of water. Our older son Armen trailed behind me as I went up to the counter and asked for two bottles of water. Except that the two words I used were of two different languages: “tnayn tchoor”, one, the Arabic word for "two", and one, the Armenian word for "water". The employee looked at me puzzled as I repeated myself a bit more insistently. More puzzlement. Then he figured out what I wanted to say, and grabbed two cold bottles and set them on the counter. As I turned around, still oblivious to what I had said, I noticed my son walking away from me, back to the car where Maria was waiting, hand clasped over his mouth to prevent something from coming out. Once outside, he burst into hysterical laughter as he told his mother what I had just said. After I paid and joined them outside, I also found out. No sympathy whatsoever.

            Part of my current job description includes communications. I am supposed to facilitate connections between our church union and various groups near and far. Fortunately, this responsibility is based on my English proficiency. In English, and slightly less so in Armenian, I am usually able to say what I mean. So, I endeavor to help “decode” what others are saying, so that I understand their intent, even if the words don’t exactly match or make sense. Having been on the other side, and having had these and many other experiences of misstating what I had meant, helps me to be particularly sensitive to this. I am especially grateful that God is the One who by his Spirit “translates” our misstatements and even our frustration, exhaustion and pain into eloquent prayers. I believe that God calls us to do the same work of helping each other with our flawed attempts at communication, expressing the gentleness that is so often absent from the soulless “posts” and heartless declarations that comprise much of modern, instantaneous, worldwide “communication”.

LebCat6 (again) resting after an exhausting day on the
front-end loader. (15 Apr. 2017)

            Our summer in the city is hot and humid, and we try our best to seek out air-conditioned spaces as we do our part to serve, strengthen and encourage our friends here. We are working hard to prepare for the Christian Endeavor Youth Camp, where I am the main speaker, and the Children’s Camp, where Maria is the official “camp grandmom”. Additionally, we note that the refurbishing of our permanent living quarters has begun, and we expect that perhaps by summer’s end we will begin to make our move there. But more than all of this, we are excitedly awaiting our son Sevag’s arrival this week to spend 15 days with us here, and reconnect with the people and places that formed the world of much of his formative years.

            Finally, an encouraging event from a week ago. Following the annual general assembly of our church union, a small delegation traveled to Kessab, Syria, to rededicate the refurbished Armenian Evangelical Church in the town center. Kessab is the last remaining Armenian village from the myriad towns and cities inhabited wholly or in part by our ancestors prior to the 1915 Genocide. It is right inside the border with Turkey, and was overrun by militants entering from Turkey in March 2014, resulting in much destruction and widespread looting. Churches were especially targeted, so the reopening of this historic building was a day of celebration for all, Christian and Muslim alike, involving religious and governmental leaders. So we pray for the continued peace (or cessation of armed actions) that will promote the rebuilding of lives, homes and livelihoods across Syria and the region. [LNB]

Habibi, It's Ganatch!

5.Habibi, It’s Ganatch! (20 May 2017)

 

Why not make use of all the alphabets at your disposal? The
restaurant’s (now defunct) name, “Kammoun” (which means
cumin), uses the Arabic doubling symbol over the English “m”,
and uses the English letter “u” at the end, puts a dot over it, which
makes it into the Arabic “n”. That’s a lot to explain for a one-word
restaurant! (11 May 2016 – Mar Mikhael)

            One night recently a young friend was driving me home, after I had spoken at her church’s youth group meeting. She lives on the same side of the city as I, so I appreciated not having to wrangle a taxi or service car driver, with my limited Arabic, to take me where I wanted to go without also claiming possession of one of my arms and/or legs. At that hour it wasn’t too congested, relatively speaking, when we drove up to an intersection to wait for the traffic light. (Oh yes, when people ask me if I have noticed any changes in Beirut, I always mention how ten years ago it was rare for drivers to pay attention to the traffic signals, few as they were; now it is common for people to obey the lights. What’s more, they will sit in traffic without constantly beeping their horns. Most of them. Most of the time.)

            So, there we were, sitting at this red light on a Saturday night, waiting behind one other car. The light turned green and… we continued sitting there. I guess the driver ahead of us had an important WhatsApp message to send or read. So, my youthful driver looked through the windshield at the traffic light and then at the unconscious driver in front of her and pleaded through the windshield, “Habibi, it’s ganatch!” (“My dear, it’s green!”) And after about a half-millisecond pause, all of us in the car burst out laughing. We laughed about it the rest of the way.

 

One of the more creative uses of multilingualism I’ve seen. It
includes Armenian words in English letters, Armenian letters,
and a combination of both. I wonder if the “artist” realized
what he was doing. (11 May 2016 – Mar Mikhael)

           One of the reasons we were laughing so much was because it was such a Lebanese moment. People here are multilingual – you can’t survive without being that way. Of course, this event had a Lebanese-Armenian twist, with one word being in Arabic, one in English, and one in Armenian. And because we understood all three languages, it took us a while – a split-second – before we realized it. Usually it takes less time…

            You’ve probably heard this joke before (stop me if you’ve heard this already): Q: “What do you call someone who knows two languages?” A: “Bilingual.” Q: “What about someone who knows three languages?” A: “Trilingual.” Q: “How about someone who knows one language?” A: “American.” It’s well known that the languages you speak help to shape your ability to think about the world. It helps you to enter the world of those around you. And to better understand it. And when you lack that understanding, it leads to… well, things like warmly welcoming a dictator/ally and his goons to the White House.

            The world around here in Beirut is filled with daily reminders that the region is in turmoil. There is a linguistic hodge-podge of tongues and dialects, including Lebanese Arabic, Syrian Arabic, Palestinian Arabic, Iraqi Arabic, various African dialects of Arabic, Kurdish, Turkish, Ethiopian, Sinhalese, Tagalog, most European languages, and of course, Armenian. Certain groupings of languages are identified with certain strata of people: southern hemisphere languages among domestic workers (servants); northern hemisphere languages among tourists, aid workers, and private school students; regional (non-Lebanese) Arabic dialects among day workers or bus drivers; and so forth.

LebCat4 stakes out its position in the same spot, under whatever
car is parked here every afternoon, much like the regular beggars
on our street. (25 Apr. 2017)

            The hardest speech for me to decipher, though, is the speech of the beggars. Often I think I understand what they’re saying, but mostly I don’t. Sometimes it’s not even Arabic they are speaking. So, it is nearly impossible for me to “enter their world”. But one thing that I am able to notice is that each of them has a certain “territory”. From that vantage point, they see me pass by every day, and I see them occupying their workplace every day. Their words and gestures to passersby never change, because this is their “job”. And they have “managers” (whom I have seen), who expect a certain amount of money from them at the end of each day.

            Yet the truly impoverished, and the ones for whom local churches and other agencies have organized outreach to help with aid, education, and hope, are those I don’t see in the course of my day in the city. They are the ones scattered elsewhere in Lebanon, living in makeshift camps. The official numbers are quite low, perhaps 4:1 Lebanese to refugees. But the actual amount is likely closer to 1:1. For now, all I can do to help is to assist, encourage and pray for those who are hands-on and hearts-on with them.

LebCat 5 is determined to make use of the very last bit of the
sun’s rays for as long as possible (19 Mar. 2017)

            We’ve entered graduation season, which is also governmental exam season, and many young people are completely focused on these upcoming exams. Ninth and twelfth graders, to be specific. Our social life consists of going to this or that commencement event, and sometimes (as is the case with the Near East School of Theology, where we are living) we are even asked to be the speaker! Well, that’s what I’ve been asked to do. For her part, Maria was asked to be the speaker at the Armenian Evangelical women’s joint Ascension Day service, which will take place in a scenic destination in the north of the country next week.

            We finally were able to present our application for residency last Monday, and, if all goes well, we’ll receive the permits in a few days. That same day, the day we were called to appear at General Security to be photographed and fingerprinted, we received notice that our household goods had arrived at the port. Coincidence? Or perhaps it was God’s timing, to encourage us and remind us that he is guiding us in this new venture.   [LNB]